Of Slow Mornings and Sleep Addled Affection
by HowDoYouWords
Summary: I just really need lots of domestic Arthur and Eames, I'm not even sorry. This is exactly as the title says, and it's basically schmoop and lovey touches and waking up and sleepy Arthur and Eames, and mainly from Arthur's POV. Not written in 1st person


"Darling?"

Jesus, he loved this man. This - _Eames_. Eames, who loved colors and cultures, spices and sweets, books and articles, hot weather and lots of sand. Eames, who had traveled the entire world and mapped his favorite spots - which are constantly changing, by the way. Arthur sees new things circled every day.

Also, for the record, they aren't chained to each other - not in a sense they'd ever acknowledge, in any case.

They agreed that this life (domesticity and an endless amount of comfort and safety) wasn't entirely for them; not yet. There were still dreams to experience, minds to change, jobs to take, danger to be had - plenty of life to live on the edge.

And this doesn't make them stupid; you can't afford to be stupid if you're going to survive (or if you're really good at it, live) in the dream-sharing industry. They know that death is always in the cards, and is never only one bullet of opportunity. If anything, it's never stopping. A job gone wrong. Limbo. A vengeful client, or more likely, a previous mark. There was always, always risk; and that's exactly what kept them coming back, and why they loved it. Why they don't stay home and wrapped in the comfort of each other from the moment they fall asleep to when they wake up in the warmth of the afternoon sun on their legs, after light kisses, caresses, and a comfort that is quiet and soft.

Arthur cut his eyes away from the tattoo on Eames' chest and brought his attention to his face, meeting the Forger's. Eames' brow was knit together, and his eyes were only growing sharper and less sleep-heavy the longer Arthur didn't answer him. Arthur brought his hand up from its resting place on Eames' chest and placed it on his cheek, silent. He stroked his thumb across Eames' cheekbone, grazing across all the sun freckles that spotted Eames' cheeks every time he stayed in the sun a while. Eames' face relaxed slightly at the gesture, but because he was Eames, still held concern at Arthur's silence. Arthur leaned forward slightly and rested his forehead against Eames'. Bumping his nose against the Brit's, he closed his eyes and breathed in his familiar (was it becoming too familiar?) scent; musk, pine (that stupid tree cut out of an air freshener that Arthur thought looked so ridiculous), and that of those peppermints Eames seemed to constantly be sucking on. After meeting him, Arthur discovered (rather late, he thought) that nothing had shown to soothe him quite as much. Although those little Christmas candles Eames bought every year were pretty close, he thought absently.

"Arthur?"

Ah-thuh. In that heavily accented and thick-with-sleep voice Arthur has adored since he first heard it after an embarrassingly drunken victory night, on one of the first couple jobs Arthur had worked with Eames on. And while it had been a near-desperate call for orange juice and aspirin, once Arthur had gotten past the point of annoyance, he found the gravellyness quite endearing. Especially once it called Arthur a saint, and was shortly followed by 'you're actually rather charming when you're not playing Lucifer's brother now and again'. How could Arthur ever not be smitten after that?

Arthur slid his hand up from Eames' cheek and curled his fingers lightly in Eames' hair, gently scratching and dragging blunt fingernails across his scalp in a just-woke-up glow. The corners of Eames' lips quirked up and he let out a hum of appreciation, going on to nudge his head closer yet and move up slightly in order to press a kiss to Arthur's nose.

Arthur could die, he loved mornings like these.

Eames sleepy, warm, and pliant was one of Arthur's favorite Eames. Completely, one hundred percent at ease and relaxed and safe. Arthur figured while he was practically petting the man, he was allowed to quietly think things he'd most likely never say, such as that he wanted nothing more than to give mornings like these to Eames every morning, and for a long time ahead if he was to be quite honest.

Not yet, though. The thrill and chase-for-time of dream-sharing wasn't worn out just yet, and they both knew that.

Eames watched him through half-lidded eyes, sleepy and reassured once again. Arthur smiled at him. A warm, genuine, stretch-across-your-face-because-you're-just-so-happy-smile. He decided another bit of affection could be gotten away with, and brought his hand to cup the side of Eames' head, reaching his thumb down to stroke Eames' eyebrow.

"I love you."

Eames' smile was never so bright.


End file.
